notes on the apocalypse

The story begins in the suburbs of hell, under a few old billboards. The sky darkens, and it begins to rain. I see the glow reflected in her eyes, trace the light over the curves of her body. The world races by, and no one notices.

Meanwhile, in New York, a young woman ascends the razors' edge. She is colorful, marked with reds and blues, and with irreverence. The sharpness passes through to the other side, eight times. 3,000 miles away, and yet so close. Two others watch and wait.

The straight lines become vertical curves, and wind becomes cold. Shades of brown fade to dark green, then blur and disappear behind. There are two kinds of limits, one real and one imagined, both so poorly understood. Hope fades, then revives. It is only the rebellion that matters. As always, a few will do it their way, the hell with the conventions of society.